bess d. fawcett (bestzeller) wrote in valesco,
@ 2013-03-16 17:02:00

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Drystan!
It had been difficult to smuggle decent food into St. Mungo's during the first days of Penelope's admittance, but it seemed that the welcome witch and the healers had grown progressively uncaring of what Bess hid under her cloak. They especially didn't seem to mind when she brought enough food to share, and she was glad to be of some sort of assistance. Since Penny had fallen ill, she had felt nothing but useless. Even her own children had been sent away to stay with her parents, a somewhat safe zone being in a muggle area. As she waited for the lift to stop, Bess tried to figure out when the last time she had been in her own home. Her cooking was done on her mother's stove, she'd been sleeping in the guest room with the children it...it was quite some time.

The doors opened and she stepped out. The visitor's lounge was only a short walk from the lift and Bess let out a silent sigh of relief at the sight of very few people milling around. It was late, nearing midnight, and while in the beginning the lounge would be packed with worried families, the numbers had been slowly dwindling. Some patients were sent home while others...

Bess sat beside her husband, unsure how he was awake. It felt like she never saw him sleeping.

"I brought your favorite," she whispered. They were basically alone save for a sleeping pair in the far corner of the room, but she still felt the need for soft tones. Bess kissed the side of Drystan's head before moving to unwrap her one-person care package.

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brythonichero
2013-04-01 12:18 am UTC (link)

He looked about the small cupboard uncertainly after she spoke, hesitant in his movements as he ran his hand along the frame of the door.

Drystan had always been quiet. He didn't know why that was, but that's how it had always been. When something, when life, got to be too much, he used that quiet as his weapon. Memories of Sorcha came easily to him then, how she would get so furious during their fights when he'd grow deliberate more silent as she raged louder and louder. She accused him of using logic like a sucker punch and quiet like a left jab, which was an accurate statement on his preferred method of arguing. His temper was explosive, but Drystan was not.

That tendency, he thought, was another fundamental difference between him and Bess, that she opened herself up in such a way, and he closed in. He marvelled that they could be so unlike in so many ways yet still be together, still need each other in all the ways that they did.

Family never ceased to amaze, mystify, or terrify him.

He simply didn't know how to be loud, but the gesture touched him more than words could say anyway. The cramped space brought another kind of comfort, the tightly safe spaces he sought out as a child and the ones he resisted hiding in as a grown man faced with more sadness than he reasonably knew how to handle. The ones the pale, fragile looking girl asleep on the cot in the room down the hall could so often be found in.

Though his throat closed, Drystan managed the few simple, necessary words. ""Thank you," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.

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